


Close Call

by ancalime8301



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Angst, Childbirth, Community: shkinkmeme, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 11:24:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancalime8301/pseuds/ancalime8301
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes learns that having a baby can be hazardous when both Watson and their child are endangered during Watson's labor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Call

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [Second Chances](http://archiveofourown.org/works/385593). I tried to include enough the pertinent backstory in this that it's understandable on its own.  
> Written for the [shkinkmeme](http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/) [prompt](http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/9516.html?thread=22241324#t22241324): _Watson is labor, something goes wrong. Whether it’s something like he‘s lost too much blood or the baby is turned the wrong way or whatever really.  
>  And Holmes is afraid that he’s going to lose both Watson and the baby.  
> (I don’t want them to die, I just want Holmes to think that they’re going to die)_

Watson's pregnancy had not been difficult by any means--he merely suffered the usual side effects and inconveniences as his condition advanced--but that didn't stop Holmes from fretting and fussing and protectively watching over Watson as if he was something fragile. As this child grew and moved within Watson, Holmes was keenly aware of his absence the first time and was determined to make up for it in every way he could.

He tried to conceal his efforts under the guise of common courtesy, but he was certain Watson could see right through him. Watson allowed him his fussing, though, and when he objected to Holmes' actions he never sounded angry, only amused. And of course Watson never objected to Holmes picking up his belongings or keeping regular hours, since those were things he'd tried to get Holmes to do numerous times before.

By the time Watson was due to birth, the sitting room was so clean it was almost unrecognizable. Their papers and things in Watson's old office had been cleaned out so the room could be converted into something of a playroom, though that alteration was not yet complete since the child would not need it for months. t's old bedroom would be the child's bedroom, so it contained the crib, a rocking chair, the chest of drawers full of baby clothes they had been accumulating for months, and all manner of things they would need once the child arrived. Holmes thought the towering stack of diapers was a bit excessive, but Watson assured him they would need every single one.

Once they had finished these preparations, Watson spent much of his time resting. Holmes was only too happy to fetch things for him or curl up with him on the bed, rubbing his back or stroking his stomach while Watson dozed. On occasion he could feel Watson's stomach muscles contract beneath his hands, but the spasms never amounted to anything, much to his disappointment. The waiting and anticipation were making him jumpy and restless and he wished more than anything that the baby would come soon.

Watson, too, started to become restless, quite ready to be finished with the discomforts brought by the extra weight at his middle. He had slept poorly for some weeks; now he was frequently driven from bed during the night by back pain and a need to move about for a while. Holmes accompanied him when he knew that Watson was up, but Watson often didn't wake him when he slipped from bed and Holmes would rouse some time later to find himself alone or to witness Watson returning to bed.

Thus Holmes was not at all surprised to wake as daylight brightened the room and find Watson absent. He pulled on his dressing gown and wandered along the hallway, peeking into each room in search of Watson and finding him before one of the windows in the sitting room. Watson's head was bowed and he braced himself against the sill with one hand, the other rubbing his lower back.

Holmes went to him and touched his shoulder gently. "Watson?"

Watson straightened up and smiled at him fleetingly. "I'm all right."

Holmes looked at him doubtfully. Watson was pale and there was sweat beading at his hairline. Holmes searched his pockets for a handkerchief and, finding one, reached up to blot away the sweat. He remained silent.

Watson didn't look at him, staring vacantly toward the window but not through it. He stopped kneading his back, instead delving his hand into his dressing gown pocket and pulling out his pocket watch. He merely held it for quite some time and Holmes watched, fascinated.

About five minutes after Holmes first entered the room, Watson's eyes closed briefly. He flipped open the watch, glancing at it with something like resignation in his face, then snapped it closed and slipped it back into his pocket. His hand strayed to his stomach before it returned to massaging his back, and his eyes closed again as he bowed his head and returned to the position in which Holmes had found him.

Holmes waited until the fit passed, then reached up to mop Watson's brow once again.

"I am in labor," Watson finally admitted after taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

"How long?"

"Several hours."

"What do you need?" He felt a thrill of excitement that their child was finally on its way, but he also recognized that this would be the hardest part of the endeavor for Watson.

"To sit down for a minute."

Holmes obligingly held out a hand for Watson to grab hold of and led him to his armchair a few steps away.

"I could have managed on my own," Watson said huffily once he'd dropped into the seat.

"Then why did you stay at the window?" Holmes didn't expect an answer and he didn't receive one. "When should I send for the midwife?"

"Not yet. Perhaps in an hour or two, depending on how quickly things go." Watson leaned back into the chair with a groan and a sigh. He remained there through the next contraction, then motioned for Holmes to help him up.

They made their way slowly back to the bedroom, where Holmes helped Watson out of his dressing gown before he sank upon the bed. Holmes was about to cast the dressing gown aside when he noticed a strange discoloration upon it. He examined the fabric; it was a small spot of blood.

"Watson? You're bleeding," he said, showing him the spot.

Watson stood up again to check the back of his nightshirt. "So I am," he replied. "Would you fetch a few towels?"

Holmes brought the entire stack of towels and cloths that had been put in the baby's room in preparation for the birth. The sight of the blood had shaken him, but evidently it was a normal part of the process. Watson certainly didn't seem concerned, and he had done this before.

One towel was folded and placed under Watson's hips on the bed; Watson also took a thick cloth, folded it, and tucked it between his legs. Watson was nearly settled, curled up on his side, when he remembered one last thing. "My pocket watch--it's still in my pocket."

"There's a clock on the washstand."

"That's too far away to see properly. I need to know the time exactly."

Holmes had, of course, been retrieving the watch even as he'd pointed out the clock, so he handed it to Watson with a bit of a smirk. Watson immediately opened it, nodded, and let out a careful breath as he closed it and set it on the bed beside him. Holmes held Watson's hand and watched while Watson weathered another contraction. When it passed, Holmes poured a glass of water for him and Watson gratefully drank it.

"Should you eat anything? It's about time for breakfast."

"Toast might be all right, but nothing more than that. I'm not really hungry."

"You not hungry? That is certainly out of the ordinary," Holmes teased and Watson chuckled.

"It shan't last long," he said confidently, then fished for the pocket watch again.

"Already? It's not even been five minutes."

Watson's only response was a grimace and grabbing for Holmes' hand so he could squeeze it unmercifully. It took nearly a minute for it to pass. "Yes, it's going much more quickly this time," he said as Holmes ran a handkerchief over his brow. "At this rate, we'll have a newborn by lunchtime."

"Do you need the midwife yet?"

"No, I think we'll be all right for a while longer." But he frowned as he said it and he tried to rearrange himself on the bed as if he was uncomfortable.

"What do you need?" Holmes asked patiently.

"Nothing, I'm fine. Why don't you go ask Mrs. Hudson to see to the toast?" Holmes was reluctant to leave him, but Watson waved him away.

He tried to be quick about it, but Nanny was full of questions as soon as he admitted that Watson was in labor, so it was at least ten minutes before he was able to return to Watson's side. Watson was pale and panting, clutching the pillow with his eyes clenched shut as he endured yet another contraction.

Holmes hurried to his side, rubbing his back until the pain abated and, in doing so, noticing that the edge of the towel under Watson's leg and the part of the nightshirt that rested upon it were red with blood.

As soon as Watson could pay attention, Holmes spoke up. "Watson, how much bleeding is normal?"

"It varies somewhat, why?"

"It hasn't even been a half hour and look at your towel. Is that normal?" He began to feel anxiety building up and bubbling in his gut and he firmly squashed it down.

Rather than get up off the towel to look at it, Watson removed the folded cloth from between his legs. It was soaked through. Watson carefully maintained a neutral expression, but Holmes could tell at once that he was taken aback.

"No, this is not normal," Watson said slowly.

"I'll have Mrs. Hudson fetch the midwife."

Watson caught his arm as he turned to go. "Wait until she comes up with the toast. A few minutes' delay shouldn't harm anything."

So Holmes helped Watson lay down a new towel and change out of his nightshirt, interrupted once by a contraction, and covered him with a sheet. When Mrs. Hudson appeared Holmes sent her quickly on her way, urging her not to waste a minute; Watson may accept some delay but Holmes didn't like the look of things one bit.

Watson seemed in good spirits as he nibbled his toast and sipped the tea that Mrs. Hudson had thoughtfully provided. Holmes couldn't eat, his worry for Watson robbing him of any desire for food.

After that, all they could do was wait. Holmes watched with growing horror as the heavy bleeding continued unchecked and Watson continued to suffer contractions without anything to show for it. He listened intently for those sounds that would indicate Mrs. Hudson's return, but the house was stubbornly silent.

The minutes ticked by, the bloody towels and cloths piled up, and still there was no sign of the midwife.

Watson groaned and cried out as the contractions worsened. Holmes tried everything he could to soothe and reassure him even as a deep-seated worry whispered in his ear that he was going to lose Watson, lose them both.

It had been well over an hour when the front door opened and closed and feet pounded up the stairs. Holmes went to meet the messenger, one of the small boys they sometimes used for tasks and errands. Between gasps for breath, the boy told him the midwife wasn't home when Mrs. Hudson called so Mrs. Hudson was in search of her at that very moment and would return as soon as she was able. Holmes tipped him generously and dismissed him, then hurried back to Watson.

Watson's skin seemed rather pale, and Holmes felt his heart clench in fear.

"What news?" Watson asked tiredly, holding out his hand to Holmes.

Holmes took Watson's hand and was relieved that his grip had not weakened. "It seems you're not the only one in need of the midwife this morning."

"That can happen," Watson said.

Soon afterward the contractions came relentlessly, clutching Watson in their grip for minutes at a time and hardly allowing him time to breathe before the next one began. Holmes continued to hold his hand and mop his face but he felt quite useless in the face of Watson's pain.

As quickly as it began, the agony stopped and Watson relaxed. "Nearly there," he murmured. "Next comes the pushing."

Holmes looked at the reddened towel beneath Watson and hoped it would be over soon.

In the brief respite, Watson shifted on the bed so he was half-sitting, explaining that it would be easier to push that way, and cast aside the sheet that had covered him. Holmes stacked several towels beneath Watson after Watson warned that pushing was usually the messiest part; the sheets were already irretrievably stained.

The first few attempts at pushing didn't seem to result in any progress from Holmes' perspective. Watson evidently agreed, for he had Holmes climb onto the bed with him and kneel facing him so Watson could brace his feet on Holmes' thighs. That seemed to satisfy him, and he pushed until his face was flushed. Holmes held both of Watson's hands and encouraged him mindlessly with a babble of words that spilled out without him knowing quite what he said.

Watson was in the middle of a round of pushing when Holmes heard two sets of women's footsteps on the stairs. The midwife hurried in without waiting for an invitation, but Mrs. Hudson lurked in the doorway.

"How long has he been pushing?" she demanded of Holmes since Watson was grunting with effort.

"Twenty minutes," he said after glancing at the clock.

"And the bleeding?"

"Three hours. It's been rather heavy." He nodded his head toward the pail containing the soiled towels.

She poked at them, then straightened, looking displeased. "Too long. The child must be delivered as soon as possible."

"The head is nearly there," Watson assured her, jumping into the conversation when he could.

"Just as well," she said cryptically, then went to Mrs. Hudson and spoke to her in a low voice. Once Mrs. Hudson departed, she rummaged through the carpet bag she used for the tools of her trade and withdrew several packets. She set them on the washstand and returned to the bedside.

Watson was just starting another round of pushing. Touching his knee, she said urgently, "You must push as hard as you can. Your child's life depends on it."

Holmes was startled by her words and felt the anxiety twisting in his gut begin to climb to his heart. He didn't understand, he couldn't do anything to help, he had been the cause of this . . . he fought against the panic that threatened to enclose his chest in ice and focused on Watson.

The midwife had her hands on the top of Watson's stomach and was pushing down even as Watson did all he could to propel the child out, and Holmes caught a glimpse of something emerging. It disappeared when Watson stopped and slumped back against the pillows, but evidently the midwife had seen it, too.

"We should have the head next time," she said, sounding satisfied. Mrs. Hudson returned at that moment, so the midwife left the bed and worked busily over her herbs and the hot water Mrs. Hudson brought.

"Why did she say that about the child's life?" Holmes asked Watson urgently.

Watson sighed. "It's likely the blood isn't only mine--some is from the tissues that have supported the child. Until the child is delivered and its connection to those tissues is severed, there is a chance it could bleed to death."

A wave of cold fear swept over Holmes and fed his anxiety. "Yet you said a few minutes' delay in fetching the midwife wouldn't harm anything!" he hissed. "Have you gone mad?"

"There is nothing she could have done had she been here sooner," Watson said. "Babies are born in their own time, Holmes, and there isn't much we can do to make it go more quickly."

Holmes wasn't convinced, but before he could voice his doubts the midwife came over with a steaming cup of medicinal tea. "For the bleeding," she said simply, handing it to Watson.

The liquid must not have been as hot as it looked, for Watson began sipping it immediately. He finished just before the next contraction; the midwife took the cup and set it aside, then resumed her position with her hands upon Watson's stomach.

Slowly the child's head appeared again and began to emerge. The midwife told Watson to hold for a moment, then coached him to start again slowly as she moved her fingers around the child's visible head as if to help stretch the skin for its passage. Watson groaned and gradually the head came out.

"Keep pushing!" the midwife demanded as Watson's efforts began to wane. Watson took a deep breath and renewed his efforts and at last the head was delivered.

Holmes thought this was a good thing until the midwife cursed under her breath and her hands busied themselves with the infant.

"The cord is around its neck," she said tersely as she worked, quickly wiping the face of the blood then trying to get some slack in the cord. She cursed again and slipped her hand along the child's body, rotating it slightly. "Push again," she ordered as she eased the child out inch by inch.

Watson tried to comply despite the absence of a contraction, squeezing Holmes' hands as he curled forward yet again.

"Good, just a little more," she said and, with one last tug, the child was delivered. "A girl," she said, lifting the infant as she unwound the cord from around the neck.

Holmes thought she was the most wonderful sight he had ever seen, despite how bloody and messy she was. From the expression on his face, Watson shared his relief that their child was born.

The midwife was still working. She had tied two bits of string around the cord that extended from inside Watson and was massaging the baby's chest, then blowing across her face, then flicking her stomach. Finally she gave the infant a swat to the bottom, and the baby took a startled breath and began to wail. Only then did the midwife straighten up and take a deep breath. "That's better," she said.

The squalling infant was wrapped hastily in a towel and handed to Watson and Holmes finally budged from the position he'd held for the past--half-hour? hour? he wasn't sure. His knees didn't want to straighten so he crawled beside Watson to look at their child.

"Try to nurse her," the midwife directed as she poured more of the tea into the empty cup. "And drink this."

Holmes didn't think there was anything better than watching Watson nurse their daughter. He felt giddy with relief that their baby girl had made it through.

"You look quite besotted," Watson said with amusement.

"I am," Holmes replied, bending over to kiss Watson tenderly then lightly kiss to the baby's forehead.

The midwife refilled Watson's empty cup again and he drank with a grimace. "You're almost finished," she assured him.

"And look, it's not yet lunchtime," Holmes said. Watson smiled briefly, then let his head drop back against the pillows. "Are you all right?"

"Just tired," Watson replied. "Which is to be expected."

"Of course," Holmes murmured in agreement.

"Here, you take her," Watson said suddenly, holding the baby toward him. Holmes hesitated, looking uncertainly between Watson's face and the baby. "My arms are tired," Watson added almost sheepishly.

Holmes gingerly took the bundle and stared at their daughter's sleeping face. She was a slight, warm weight; he felt all the worry had been worthwhile, for now he fully appreciated the miracle of holding her in his arms with Watson looking on.

The idyllic moment was interrupted by the midwife touching Watson's arm. They both looked at her. "The tissues were expelled in one piece," she told Watson, "but there is still more bleeding than there ought to be." She palpated Watson's abdomen, almost kneading it, and appeared satisfied with what she found. "The womb has begun contracting as it ought to, so only time will tell. Until then, more tea," was her pronouncement, and she promptly left the bedside.

"How serious is this?" Holmes demanded.

"It depends on how long the bleeding continues," Watson admitted, then quirked a smile. "Do you have any more of that adrenal extract, just in case?"

"I did, but I don't know where it went when we cleaned," Holmes said slowly, his anxiety beginning anew. "Might it come to that?"

"I hope not," Watson said soberly.

Holmes looked down at the baby in his arms and began to wonder if he could stand having her at the cost of Watson's life. That possibility had not entered his mind and thus wasn't part of his calculations. If it had been, he may not have been so adamant about having a child after his return. That Watson survived the illness which took Mary along with his and Holmes' first child should have been enough, but he was unforgivably selfish.

The baby began to squirm and fuss in his grasp and he realized he had been clutching her rather tightly. He relaxed his grip but she began to cry anyway. "She's probably hungry," Watson said, carefully taking her and setting her to nurse on the other side. She quieted down immediately and drank for a little while before her eyes drifted closed again.

The midwife brought over the new pot of tea and a cup. She poured a cup and handed it to Holmes, set the pot on the bedside table, and took the baby from Watson. "I'll get her cleaned up while you have your tea," she said.

Watson's hands shook when he tried to hold the cup so Holmes held it for him and helped him drink. It took some time for him to finish the pot, and Holmes was troubled to see how pale Watson had become by the time the tea was gone. "How do you feel?" he asked quietly.

Watson didn't answer at first, and when he spoke, it wasn't a direct answer. "How did you feel when we were in the train car after your injury?"

Holmes did not like to think of that occasion. "Exhausted, weak, and cold," he said briefly.

"Yes, that sounds about right," Watson said agreeably.

Holmes frowned and left the bed long enough to locate a thin quilt, then covered Watson's bare torso with it, tucking it in at the shoulders but leaving it loose lower down so the midwife could continue to monitor the bleeding. He returned to sitting cross-legged next to Watson and took one of Watson's hands, trying to ignore how cool and clammy it felt.

The midwife returned with the baby, still sleeping but much cleaner and clad in a diaper and one of the small infant blankets. Holmes took the baby and cradled her in one arm while clinging to Watson's hand with the other. Watson smiled fleetingly and squeezed Holmes' hand, then closed his eyes with a sigh.

After handing off the baby, the midwife checked on Watson, feeling his pulse before taking a look at the towels she had placed a short time before. Holmes watched her closely, drawing his conclusions before she spoke. "The bleeding has slowed a little, but not enough."

"Can anything be done?"

"There is nothing more to be done. The herbs should help, given time."

"What about removing the part that's bleeding?"

"He has lost too much blood already to withstand such a procedure, and I am not a surgeon."

The anxiety in his gut hardened into a leaden lump that felt heavier with each word she spoke. He gripped Watson's hand more tightly, willing him to speak up and contradict her, but apparently he had slipped into a doze and did not respond. "How much longer will it be until we will know if the herbs have helped?"

"An hour, no more," she said, sounding sympathetic. She touched his knee briefly, then left him to tend to the tidying up.

It was, perhaps, the longest hour of his life. The baby slept the whole time. Watson woke briefly and murmured something nonsensical before he opened his eyes and stared unblinkingly at Holmes. "I've never seen you look so sad before," he mumbled, twitching his fingers in Holmes' grip. His eyes closed again a few moments later and he lapsed back into napping.

Holmes did not budge from Watson's side, feeling dazed and overwhelmed by the possibility that this day could be Watson's last and sick with apprehension from the mere idea. He had never feared for Watson's life as he did in that hour.

The midwife checked on the bleeding and felt Watson's abdomen and pulse every quarter hour. Holmes watched her every move, feeling something akin to desperation each time she turned away with a small shake of her head.

During the last check of that momentous hour, the midwife took much longer than usual in evaluating Watson. His rapid pulse was unchanged, for she did not linger over that, but her hands remained on Watson's stomach for some time, her face the very picture of concentration. At length, she released a long breath and said, "Good, very good." Her examination of the towels did not take quite as long and also brought good news. "The bleeding is slowing," she assured Holmes. "But I will remain here until at least teatime to make sure all is well."

It was supposed to make him feel better, he knew, but when he looked at poor Watson, so pale and sweaty and looking quite terrible, relief was not what came to mind. "When will it stop?" he asked bluntly.

She told him that some bleeding is normal following childbirth, but it should cease within five days, probably sooner. Holmes found it difficult to understand her cavalier approach to the idea of Watson continuing to bleed for days, but Watson trusted her so he ought to, too.

"Would you like me to take her so you can rest for a while?" the midwife asked kindly when he did not respond to what she'd told him.

"What is the time?" he asked.

"Half past one," she answered patiently.

Only six hours had passed since he woke and went in search of Watson. The grittiness in his eyes and the slow functioning of his mind usually indicated he had been awake for days, not mere hours, but considering the circumstances he was not surprised.

"You could set her on the bed between you," the midwife suggested.

Holmes glanced at her, then nodded and reluctantly released Watson's hand so he could shift the baby in his arms and carefully place her next to Watson on the mattress. He laid down beside her, his head next to Watson's on the pillow and his body curled around the baby protectively. He slipped his hand into Watson's again and released a sigh.

He didn't expect to sleep, but he did and was roused again by fretful noises from the baby. When he opened his eyes, Watson was watching him, looking weary but awake. Holmes regarded Watson for a moment, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"Hello to you too," Watson murmured, one corner of his mouth quirking in a smile. Their daughter began to whimper and Watson's eyes flicked downward. "She's probably hungry again," he said tiredly, moving as if to lean forward to pick her up.

Holmes stopped him. "I'll get her." He carefully picked her up, pleased that she stopped her whimpering to stare at him wide-eyed. When Watson had pushed the quilt down and held his arms in readiness, Holmes passed her over.

Watson had trouble keeping his arms at the right height for her to nurse. Holmes retrieved one of the few pillows that wasn't propping Watson up and wedged it beneath Watson's arms, which helped, but the pillow wasn't sufficiently firm and the positioning was still less than ideal.

"Sit up and let me get behind you," Holmes said, propelling Watson upward with a hand under his shoulder.

Watson gasped at the sudden change in angle and took deep breaths while Holmes wedged himself between Watson and his pillows. "You should have gone slower, Holmes," he said weakly.

Holmes pulled Watson to lean against him, Watson's head on his shoulder. He could feel Watson's heart pounding and he frowned. "What's the matter?"

"The blood loss--abrupt changes in position like that can make me faint."

"I didn't know. I'm sorry," Holmes said contritely as he slipped his arms around Watson and helped him hold the baby. "Is that better?"

"Yes," Watson said with a sigh.

They were silent for a while, watching their daughter.

"You must never do that to me again," Holmes said abruptly, tightening his arms around Watson.

"Which part?" Watson sounded amused.

"Nearly bleeding to death in our bed and making me afraid I'm going to lose you."

"I didn't have much of a choice in the matter, you know."

"Then you must never be in such a position again."

"That has as much to do with you as it does me," Watson reminded him, pressing his temple against Holmes' jawline.

"Yes, I know," Holmes said quietly.

"But you'll lose me eventually, no matter what you do," Watson said meditatively.

"That is not worth speaking of. It won't happen for many years."

"Oh, really? According to whom?"

"According to me," Holmes said confidently.

Watson laughed. "Then why were you so worried?" he teased.

Holmes frowned. To answer flippantly seemed inappropriate, but he was not prepared to put his worries into words--he would rather Watson not know, at least not yet, just how afraid he'd been.

"For what it's worth, I hope you're right. I don't know that I'd trust you to raise our daughter properly if I were gone," Watson continued lightly.

"Mycroft would no doubt intervene until she was old enough to send to boarding school," Holmes conceded amiably.

"I don't know if that would be an improvement."

"He is generally considered the more socially appropriate of the two of us."

"That's not saying much, especially where raising a daughter is concerned. Mary would have been a better influence than any of us." Watson peered down at the baby. "I think she needs to be burped."

Holmes obligingly lifted her to Watson's shoulder and started patting her back. "We'll need to give her a name." It was something he hadn't been ready to think of earlier, but now that Watson was on the mend it seemed an appropriate thing to consider.

"Yes, eventually," Watson said. The baby responded by spitting up some liquid onto his naked shoulder. "Holmes, you're supposed to put a cloth under her when you do that."

"You failed to mention that," Holmes said defensively, mopping up the mess with the sleeve of his dressing gown.

Watson sighed aggrievedly. "I think you did it on purpose," he said, sounding tired.

The baby yawned and seemed to nestle into Watson's shoulder. "It appears she's done eating for now," Holmes commented.

"Did you want to move before I fall asleep on you?" Watson asked, trying to stifle a yawn.

"Only if this isn't comfortable for you," Holmes said immediately, greatly liking the idea of Watson sleeping in his arms after what they had gone through that morning.

"It's fine," Watson said, turning his face toward Holmes' neck as if to shut out the afternoon light filtering into the bedroom.

Holmes carefully tugged the quilt back up over Watson and moved the baby onto the pillow cradled in Watson's lap. She didn't stir. Watson's breathing settled into a deep, even rhythm. Holmes watched over them fondly and wondered if Watson would object to naming their daughter Mary.


End file.
